


when you move, I’m moved

by awakeanddreaming



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Ballet, F/M, Mini Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 20:22:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18351029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awakeanddreaming/pseuds/awakeanddreaming
Summary: Hi! So this is just a little something I wrote last night while reflecting on the fact that twenty years ago Tessa turned down the National Ballet School to skate with Scott, and yesterday she found herself in a studio at the National Ballet with Scott.This piece is short and reflective, thinking about the what ifs. What if she’d picked ballet instead?





	when you move, I’m moved

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So this is just a little something I wrote last night while reflecting on the fact that twenty years ago Tessa turned down the National Ballet School to skate with Scott, and yesterday she found herself in a studio at the National Ballet with Scott. 
> 
> This piece is short and reflective, thinking about the what ifs. What if she’d picked ballet instead?

Tchaikovsky is drifting softly through the walls from one of the studios down the hall. She listens to the delicate rise and fall of the music as she runs a pointed toe across a, barely there, bubble in the tape that runs along a seam in the Marley flooring. Her hand rests lightly on the smooth bar, her thumb tracing the grain, the wood warm under her palm from the afternoon sun that streams through the floor to ceiling windows. She closes her eyes against the light and finds herself, if only briefly, imagining another life where the bar would have become an extension of her arm, rather than the hand and body of someone else. A life where she would move and her movements would be mirrored by the dozen other girls in her class, rather than just one boy. 

 

She sees a little girl, one who had danced in a room just like this, in this very same building somewhere, at a summer intensive. A little girl desperate to be the best. A little girl with a hummingbird in her chest, her pulse vibrating with anticipation as the teachers corrected turnout and posture. A little girl at risk of flying away as she stood still awaiting their criticism only to be complimented on her perfect form. A little girl who felt like she was soaring when she completed three perfect pirouettes. 

 

She pictures the little girl with tears clinging to the points of her eyelashes as she explains to her teacher that she had tried to tie her bun all by herself that morning, but despite using copious bobby pins and the perfect shade of hair net (just like her mom always did for her) it just wouldn’t stay. That little girl had bit back tears as she promised that it would never happen again. There was no little boy standing next to her to pull her hair and say that it didn’t matter anyways, to remind her that she tried, to challenge her to try harder next time but not to sweat the small stuff. She had no hand to hold to keep her planted to the ground. 

 

She tries to imagine what that little girl’s life would look like now, had she chosen this path, had she not promised her hand to a boy and never let go. Would she still be standing here in this room? Would she be the one offering the choreography? Would she be a principle? Would she still have had her legs cut open, thin white scars tracing the line of her shins, the ridge of her calves? Would her heart have broken in so many ways, pieced back together with ribbons of gold and silver? Would she still have craved the weight of a gold medal around her neck, the perfect counterbalance to hold her down and remind her why they worked so hard?

 

She tries to imagine, to wonder, but it just feels like spinning. At first it’s freeing and exhilarating, like the 32 fouettés in swan lake and she’s soaring. But then she is on rotation number sixteen and she’s forgotten to spot, she’s off balance, dizzy, and untethered. Even standing still everything around her is in constant motion. 

 

There is a hand on the small of her back, perfectly moulded into the curve of her spine, warm even through her sweater. 

 

“Hey, Tess,” his voice is soft, a gentle breeze against her skin. “We lost you for a minute there. You alright?” 

 

She nods, turning to face him. “Fine, just thinking.” 

 

“Taking it all in?” he asks, his thumb running a soothing circle over her mid back. “This is like a dream come true for you, eh?”

 

She shakes her head, the movement loosening the mess of hair tied on top of her head. She looks around the room, sees the mirrors across from them. Sees her reflection staring back at her, standing at the bar, the city peeking in from the windows behind her. Next to her is Scott and this, standing next to him in a studio at the National Ballet of Canada, was never a dream that she had. It had always been a choice between the two. An unexpected warmth spreads out over her chest, creeping its way through her entire body, with every beat of her heart, until it’s reached the very tip of every finger and toe. Until she is consumed by warmth and happiness. 

 

She shakes her head one more time, a smile on her lips, glittering in her eyes, “No.” 

 

“Come on Virtch, don’t tell me you weren’t imagining what your life would be like if you chased your dream of becoming a ballerina.” 

 

“No. My dreams already came true,” she says, still smiling at him, picturing him with a gold medal hanging in the centre of his chest, a grin so wide it looks like it could split his face in half. 

 

“It’s okay to have new dreams, kiddo,” he pulls her into his side and places a gentle kiss to the top of her head. 

 

“Thank you,” she says, leaning into him, allowing him to support her weight. 

 

He shrugs and lifts his eyebrows in question, silently asking,  _ For what?  _

 

“For being here with me,” she explains. “It means so much.” More than she can put words to. 

 

“Always,” he says, smiling back at her. “Shall we dance?” 

 

He holds out his hand to her and she takes it without hesitation, allowing him to lead her to the centre of the room. Her hand fits perfectly encased in his, grown together to form around one another. 

 

“Are you ready?” a voice from the front of the room asks, clapping his hands together, while his wife stands next to him smiling at them. Heather presses play on the stereo, while Guillaume counts them in.

 

“It’s been so long since I’ve done proper ballet,” she says, her hand tightening around Scott’s. 

 

“Just move to the music,” he says, twirling her into him. “You’ll do great, just move with me.” And this, she thinks, is more than anything she could have dreamed. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
